


the poor wren (the most diminutive of birds)

by audiopsychic



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Murder, giving side characters a life and voice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 15:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13056888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audiopsychic/pseuds/audiopsychic
Summary: there are tears pricking your eyes as you step away from the hug, and you do not want rhona to see the fear and sorrow that you yourself are feelings, lest it fuel her own. “i am so much a fool, should i stay longer. it would be my disgrace and your discomfort.” you leave, turning back one last time to smile gently at your sweet cousin.





	the poor wren (the most diminutive of birds)

**Author's Note:**

> this was written last night in a fit of insomniac frenzy. guess who was just in a production of macbeth. guess who i played. take a guess. take a fucking guess.

macduff has fled to england, and you are the one who must inform his wife.

rhona clutches her youngest child, isla, who by now must be almost a year old. your cousin strides angrily into her parlor, voice angry. “what hath he done to make him fly the land?” she cries.

you stride in after her, moving past her eldest, who sits curled in the corner with a book, but you know they are listening. you do your best to placate rhona. “you must have patience madam!”

“he had none,” she hisses. “when our actions do not, our fears do make us traitors.” her voice is clear, and angry.

“you know not whether it was his wisdom or his fear!” you approach rhona, your own voice growing urgent, and you feel close to pleading.

your cousin bursts out in rage, sweeping the hand not carrying her daughter in an angry arc. “wisdom?” she scoffs. “to leave his wife? to leave his babes, his mansion and his titles in a place from whence he himself does fly? he loves us not; he wants the natural touch: for the poor wren, the most diminutive of birds, will fight, her young ones in her nest, against the owl.” she clenches her fist. “all is the fear and nothing is the love; as little is the wisdom, where the flight so runs against all reason!” she exclaims.

you are silent for but a moment, and in that quiet moment you can see the fear in her eyes, the trembling of her shoulders. she loves her husband, and she knows he loves her. you step forward, and clasp her hand. “my dearest coz,” you start, your voice soft. “your husband is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows the fits of the seasons.” you lean in, your voice almost threatening to give away your own fear. “i dare not speak much further, but cruel are the times when we do not know ourselves, when we hold rumor from what we fear, yet know not what we fear, but float upon a wild and violent sea each way and move.” you pause, and sigh, a gentle smile pulling onto your face. “i take my leave of you. i shall not be long but i’ll be here again,” you pull rhona into a hug, and you can feel her smile into your shoulder.

you pull back, clasping her had once more. “my pretty cousin, blessings upon you!” you make to leave, and as you approach them, her eldest stands, and enfolds you into a hug, and you wrap your arms around them tightly.

there are tears pricking your eyes as you step away from the hug, and you do not want rhona to see the fear and sorrow that you yourself are feelings, lest it fuel her own. “i am so much a fool, should i stay longer. it would be my disgrace and your discomfort.” you leave, turning back one last time to smile gently at your sweet cousin.

 

* * *

 

when you return to fife, the gate is open, and no guards stand at their post, and you dismount, the fear you felt earlier doubling with every step.

you enter, and the sight is appalling. you are unable to move, the savagery before you horrifying. there’s no one alive in what used to be a bustling castle. people lay sprawled, guts spilled. there’s blood everywhere. this was not a battle. this was a massacre. even the children are dead.

suddenly, you bolt, sprinting towards rhona’s chamber with haste, fear filling your guts, as you pass fallen guards, savagely gutted. at one point, you pass the corpse of a maid, who seemed to have fallen down a long flight of stairs to escape her pursuer, and you nearly retch at the sight of her.

you push open the door to the room in which you had been mere hours before, comforting your beloved cousin, and stop dead at the sight. your cousin’s child lays on the ground before you, a stab wound to their gut, neck snapped and their own knife clutched in their hand.

you can picture it, rhona clutching her daughter, her eldest leaping in front of her, knife drawn in a vain attempt to protect their mother.

you stumble blindly past them, into the master bedroom of the macduffs. the door is flung open, wood splintered in places as if someone slammed it against the wall while opening it at full force, but what you see through the door, that’s what breaks you. you stumble forward, clutching the door frame in an attempt to steady yourself to no avail. rhona, oh god, rhona is sprawled on the ground, hair unfixed, mouth open in a silent scream, gouges visible across her entire torso, leg twisted unnaturally. she clutches isla still, the baby’s skull simply crushed. you collapse, falling to your knees next to them and scooping rhona and isla’s lifeless bodies into your own arms, and the tears you tried to conceal from her earlier spill as you break into shuddering sobs.

you can picture a night, you and rhona sitting together after some sort of celebration, the snow piling up outside as you sat by the fire and talked about nothing in particular. you remember a dinner, just after isla was born. you sat next to rhona, macduff on her other side, grinning happily as you coo at the baby in rhona’s arms, the pride evident on the macduffs’ face. you can picture their eldest, grinning happily as they tell you all they learned, explaining whatever they had read in their newest book. you see macduff, holding his wife and children proudly, the look on his face proclaiming they meant the world to him.

lady macduff is dead, and you are the one who must inform her husband.

 


End file.
